Bedside Manner
by Green Owl
Summary: A certain NSA agent's got the fever and guess who's got the cure? Pairing: John/Ellie. Written for the Sweet Charity auction.
1. Symptoms

Author's Note: This fic was written for dear friend, Stephanie, who purchased my scribbling skills at the Sweet Charity auction held in March of 2008, with all proceeds going to RAINN.

Disclaimer: I don't own or buy/sell/process this mindcrack - I just abuse the _hell_ out of it.

* * *

Ellie Bartowski slowly slipped the protective mitts onto her hands, hesitating before she retrieved her entrée from the oven.

Something was off.

She couldn't put her finger on it, but a vague feeling of disquiet and unease had been bouncing around inside her skull for the past ten minutes, distracting her from the task at hand.

_Purse…?_

_Check – on the table by the door._

_Keys…?_

_Check – in the dish on the table by the door, right next to my purse._

_Kids…?_

_Yep, Chuck and Devon, present and accounted for…whoa, where did that snark come from?_

_Possible side effects of missing the prom…?_

_Nope – elected as one of the princesses, still have the tiara packed away in storage for future pathetic "glory days" nostalgia._

_O-kaaay…then what's missing?!_

Ellie cracked open the oven door and peeked under the aluminum foil of the casserole dish, satisfied to find that the skins of her chicken breasts, nestled all snug in their bed of wild rice and cream of mushroom soup, were a pleasant shade of well-cooked tan. She replaced the cover and closed the door. _Everything all ship-shape in there. _

She lifted the lid on the skillet and checked on her sautéing squash and zucchini. They were sizzling cheerfully in their broth of butter and garlic salt, as if they were singing a merry little tune while they cooked: _"Yummy-yum-yummy, I will soon be in your tummy…!"_

She then made sure that the dessert components were all present and accounted for in the refrigerator, and yes, they were: sliced berries and homemade pound cake waiting to be stacked atop each other and smothered in the _crème __fraîche_ she'd made from scratch earlier. _Mmm-hmmm…plenty for everyone, no need to send Chuck out for emergency supplies._

She slipped a finger into the foamy white material of the last item's container and licked it into her mouth. It had taken a lot of time and focus to make it, but she had a commitment to having as much homemade food on the table as possible…not that her regular patrons noticed, much less appreciated, her efforts.

Devon liked his Lite Cool Whip. He put it in his coffee, on his cereal, on his "lite" ice cream. There was at any one time at least one open container of it in her refrigerator and a second tucked somewhere deep in recesses of her freezer. "Back up, babe," he would explain, kissing her cheek as she tried to rationalize his brand loyalty to the odd, chemically-engineered substance.

Chuck and Morgan were hardcore fans of Redi-Whip. She'd come home from a shift once to the bizarre sight of the two of them slouched low on the couch, slack-jawed and wide-eyed, passing one of the red and white cans back and forth as they watched Hayden Panettiere cavorting across the screen in her matching red and white cheerleader outfit.

Just the memory of the harsh, flatulent sound of the pressurized synthetic dairy material squirting into their gaping mouths was enough to give her the creeps.

There was only one person who shared her table that also shared her opinion on whipped topping.

"Appreciating the _real_ stuff separates the men from the boys," John had murmured to her last Sunday while drying a dessert plate she'd just handed to him –

_John…_

She glanced at the clock on the microwave and arched an eyebrow.

From the first time he'd taken her up on her offer of Sunday night meal, John Casey had always been at least fifteen minutes early for family dinner.

They had developed a weekly ritual of sorts. He would knock on the front door, she would call out for him to come in. He would enter with a bottle of wine or some kind of dessert in hand, she would thank him profusely for being so sweet and so thoughtful. Together, they would set the table and then begin the process of "rounding up the troops" – him pulling Chuck (and usually Morgan) away from the videogame of the month and her coaxing Devon off of the treadmill and into something a little more concealing than what she privately referred to as his "porno-boy exercise shorts".

But tonight was different: it was three minutes until serving time and John still hadn't arrived.

_Maybe he's running late…?_

She arranged the glasses and plates, placed the cutlery on the napkins, hedging her bets on who would want what dish as she chose the best spots for the cooling pads.

Devon usually sat at the head, she at the foot, Chuck to her right, Morgan (he was incessantly popping by for what he called "the best home-cooked meal in California") to her left. Ellie had opted to shake things up a little when John had joined them five weeks ago – she put him on her right and made Morgan sit next to Chuck on Devon's right.

As she suspected from earlier interactions with him, John immediately took it upon himself to make sure she actually got to eat what she cooked.

Before him, there were some nights that the side dishes were gone before she'd finished helping herself to the entrée. If Chuck and Morgan had their druthers, they would simply put their heads over the nearest dish, place a finger over a nostril, and use the other to inhale every last bit of the food she'd spent hours slaving over. Devon had a little more restraint, but he also had a massive appetite when it came to her "awesome grub" and often took no less than two large servings of everything.

All of them had at least one hollow leg a piece, and there had been occasions when she found herself scraping the spoon along the bottom of the starch dishes – all of it had "migrated" onto the boys' plates. Dessert was even worse. She'd come back from packing up the leftovers in the refrigerator to find most and sometimes all of the dessert gone and she had no recourse because it was already in the stomachs of her menfolk.

John earned a permanent spot on her guest list the first night he sat at her table.

Morgan had shown up unexpectedly ("Anna's with her girlfriends, getting waxed– no cash on hand for take out – do I smell salmon?"), leaving Ellie about to panic before she realized that she had made more than enough to feed four hungry men.

She had no idea how much John ate and she was taking no chances her first time having him as a guest at her table, cooking up a massive amount of her failsafe meal – poached salmon with lemon slices, garlic-cheddar mashed potatoes, roast green beans with almonds – as well as the apple pie she'd promised him that first night she invited him into their home.

As Ellie had suspected, John proved to be very good company, complimenting her cooking and entertaining her with surreal stories of his time at the Buy More while Devon tried his best to persuade Chuck and Morgan to come along on his latest "Dudes Vs. The Elements" trip.

She liked John, really and truly liked him. Chuck had precious few friends over the years (Morgan ever since grade school and of course, "He Who Shall Not Be Named", a.k.a. Bryce Larkin, in college), but this tall, polite man was one of the best Chuck had ever made friends with.

He said "please".

He said "thank you".

He slid her chair out for her when she sat down.

And he was perceptive – John was the only one who noticed the longing in her eyes as she watched Morgan poised to attack the sole remaining slice of dessert with his fork.

"Haven't you had enough, Grimes?" John had said in a perfectly calm tone as he moved the pie dish out of the way.

"Enough of Ellie B.'s spectacular, all-American apple pie à la mode?" Morgan snorted as changed tactics and tried to reach for the slice with the stainless steel server. "Surely you jest!"

"No, I don't, and don't call me 'Shirley,'" John said as he smoothly plucked the utensil from Morgan's hands and made an admonishing motion with it. He turned to her and gave her a charming, dimpled grin. "Would you like your first slice of the pie you spent _all_ afternoon baking, Miss Bartowski?"

"Yes, thank you, John," she said, beaming as she held up her plate. "And please, call me 'Ellie'."

He nodded at her as he served her the tiny sliver, his dimples deepening before he turned his attention to Chuck, who was piling most of the remnants of the carton of vanilla ice cream onto his plate.

She stifled a gurgle of laughter as John then lowered his eyebrows at Chuck and made what sounded like a faint growling noise before cocking his head in her direction.

"Oh…I'm guessing you want some ice cream to go with your pie…right, sis?" Chuck said, keeping a wary eye on John as he gave her the very last scoop.

"Thank you, Chuck," she said graciously, biting her lips to keep from laughing as John gave her brother a terse, approving nod.

"You're a good man, Casey," Devon said as he clapped John on the shoulder. "Not many are able to stand up to this dessert demolition duo."

"Three!" Chuck put in quickly as he gestured to the highly-polished condition of Devon's plate and gave him a nervous grin. "We couldn't have done it without you, Brother Woodcomb."

"Amen," Morgan said solemnly, clasping his hands together and bowing his head for a moment in agreement.

"What can I say, guys?" Devon leaned back, patted his ridiculously flat belly and gazed at Ellie. "I love my woman's cooking almost as much as I love her."

She grinned at him, but her smile faltered as she caught sight of the expression on John's face.

Neither Chuck not Morgan nor Devon saw it (they had swung back to the subject of white water rafting) but she did. Soft as a shadow of a cloud passing over the sun on a summer's day, it was a pensive, thoughtful look that brought the corners of his mouth down, and seemed to be directed at his empty dessert plate.

"Hey," she whispered, offering her slice of pie and its accompanying ice cream, "do you want it?"

He looked up at her and shook his head. "No, thanks. It was just as good as you said it would be, but I'm afraid I've had my fill."

She wanted to ask him what was on his mind, but she suspected that he would be even more resistant to one of her pep talks than Chuck was, so she left it alone and finished her dessert.

Ellie was pleasantly surprised when John offered to help her with the dishes a little later in the evening. The rest of the men had already parked themselves in front of the television and John and Ellie were left to their own devices as she washed and he dried.

She was the mistress of chit-chat and managed to generate a steady stream of conversation which John kept up with splendidly, but in the back of her mind she kept seeing that look on his face – wistful, reflective, quiet, hungry for something that wasn't on the table.

It intrigued her and it made her a little sad.

* * *

Weekends came and went and most Sunday afternoons Devon and Chuck and sometimes Morgan would be drawn to the wonderful smells coming from the kitchen, where they found Ellie cooking her brains out as the clock tick-tocked its way to the seven-twelve position.

"Wow, babe, you're making enough to feed an army," Devon commented as he watched her perform the complex boogie of mixing, prepping and glazing that produced tangerine pork tenderloin, roasted potato wedges, sugar snap peas and caramel brownies the next Sunday.

She kissed his cheek, kept on going and later tucked the memory of how John relished the meal deep in the recesses of her tender little heart.

"Gee, sis, we having someone special over for dinner?" Chuck asked as he angled to get a taste of the four-cheese meat lasagna and sautéed Swiss chard with Parmesan cheese before she served it up on the table.

"Hands off," John had said, grabbing Chuck's wrist before he could filch one of the Parmesan crisps she'd prepped earlier in the afternoon for the Caesar salad. "In fact, why don't you go wash them before you sit down, okay, slick?"

She managed to keep a straight face as Chuck ran for the bathroom, but she lost it and burst into giggles when John caught her eyes and rolled his.

"Thank you!" she said, inclining her head towards his as she laughed. "I only made enough for everyone to have one."

"My pleasure," John replied, stashing the tiramisu he made in the fridge and getting the plates down from the cupboard.

"Ellie Bartowski, apple of my eye, light of my life, cream in my coffee, is that steak I smell?" Morgan crooned, his nose leading the way as he staggered into the kitchen on the fourth Sunday.

"Yeah," she replied, her attention focused on her skillet. "New York strip steak, fried onions and cherry tomatoes, black truffle macaroni and cheese. Lady Baltimore cake for dessert."

"Lady Baltimore cake?" Morgan dropped to his knees in front of her and gripped her jean-clad calf. "Marry me!"

"Get up, Grimes," John ordered, grabbing him by the back of the shirt, hauling him to his feet and pushing him in the direction of her brother's room. "Go play with Chuck and leave the chef alone."

Ellie gave John a grateful grin as she pushed the onions and tomatoes around in their melted butter.

He shrugged gallantly, applied the bottle opener to the Shafer Cabernet he'd brought with him and didn't say another word. He just let her cook.

She liked that so much about John, how he let her be and didn't require any kind of verbal upkeep.

From the beginning they seemed to have some kind of magical…she supposed "flow" was the best word to describe it, as if they always knew where one was in relation to the other.

There were no "honey, behind you!" moments like she had with Devon while he was digging for PowerAde in the fridge as she attempted to make pancakes.

No "Chuck! I was saving that for dessert tonight!" freak-outs when she discovered her baby brother had once again devoured an entire carton of ice cream in one sitting.

No "Morgan, if you're going to keep on storing your leftover sizzling shrimp in my fridge, I expect you to pay rent" scoldings.

It was completely easy and effortless with him and she found herself looking forward to Sundays like she had before her mother left.

She supposed he did, too, because the man was _never_ late.

So it stood to wonder why he wasn't in her kitchen right now, choosing the wine glasses and giving her a little spin or two under his arm as they navigated around each other like a pair of lifelong dance partners who happened to moonlight as chefs on weekends.

_Maybe he had other plans? _she thought as she selected placemats, then shook her head. _No. If he had a conflict, he would call. This is so not like him…especially since I'm making his favorite dessert._

Tonight's menu was classic Ellie Bartowski fare (Morgan claimed was his third favorite meal of all time), but she'd decided to try something new by substituting the usual dessert – chocolate soufflé – with strawberry shortcake.

She'd bought the strawberries from an organic farmer yesterday, made the pound cake late this morning and spent most of the post-lunch period whipping up the _crème fraiche_, hoping she could surprise him before he arrived.

_No question that was going to happen, especially since it's now officially seven o'clock and John is not here_.

"Honey, have you seen John at all today?" she asked Devon as he sauntered into the kitchen, hot and sweaty from his workout.

"Nope," Devon said, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge.

"He usually washes his car on Sundays before he comes over, right?"

"You'd know better me, babe," Devon said, pressing a quick kiss to her temple before he headed to their bedroom. "You got the sightline."

Ellie glanced out the window and noticed that John's Crown Victoria was not its usual shiny self.

_Has something happened to him? _she wondered as she got the napkins from the drawer and began folding them.

* * *

_Never thought it would end like this…_

John Casey clenched his teeth as he gripped the handle, swaying as he struggled to maintain his balance. His vision blurred so suddenly that he had to lean his forehead against the door to keep from collapsing on the floor.

He tried blinking a couple of times to clear the haze from his eyes, but it was no use. He was dead on his feet and he knew it. It was just a matter of time before someone found his lifeless body decomposing on the Mexican-tiled kitchen floor of his apartment.

It was a commonly accepted trope that one's life swam before one's eyes before they died, but in his case, it was all the things he _hadn't_ done that began drifting in and out of his mind as he sank to his knees and fell forward onto his stomach.

He'd never gone fishing with his father.

Dear old John Hancock "Ben" Casey, a.ka. "Sir, yes, _sir_!" had no interest in pursing such useless father-son bonding crap.

Ben Casey's goals in life related to his firstborn were simple: make sure little Johnny kept up his grades, played his sports, and was capable of squaring away the head until it was clean enough for the Virgin Mary herself to conduct her business in it.

Four years at Canoe U, an officer's commission in the United States Marine Corps and countless missions later, all that Lt. Col. Casey's eldest boy could think about was how the tile against his cheek was just as cool and soothing as the tile in that plain white bathroom that he'd scrubbed over and over and over again…

_And just as clean. Hoo-yah! _

He'd spent a good thirty minutes on the floor yesterday with Comet and a scrub brush. Now that he was was once again up close and personal with his efforts, he was satisfied to see that he'd done an adequate job.

_Old habits die hard, don't they, sir…?_

He'd never gotten married.

John Casey had dodged that figurative bullet more than once. His high school sweetheart, Mary Jo Underwood, thought she was pregnant for all of two seconds, but that turned out to be a false alarm.

He'd dated here and there since then, but more often than not, the women he attracted wanted to nest, while he wanted to keep on adventuring.

_What's with you, John Casey? Don't you want a family some day? _they'd ask again and again each time he told them their "arrangement" was only going to be temporary.

He bore their resentment as best he could by keeping the image of his mother weeping over the dishes each time his father left for active duty front and center in his mind.

All of the "I love you, Mommy"s and hugs and flowers pulled out of neighbors' gardens (roots and all) couldn't make her stop.

John didn't think he could bear to see another Mrs. Casey cry.

Now, as he lay there on the floor, unable to summon the strength to move, he found himself wondering when Woodcomb was finally going to successfully locate his balls and put a ring on Ellie Bartowski's finger.

_That woman's a keeper and he would be a fool to let her get away…_

He'd never made love to a woman.

Oh, there had been plenty of sex with plenty of girls over the years, make no mistake about that.

And let's not forget "fornicating" (good, naughty fun!), "banging" (excellent for relieving tension), "screwing" (satisfying and pleasurable) and plain old "fucking" ("Because that's what you do best, isn't it, Marine?").

But there was never, ever an instant where he let his heart get in on the action.

Afterwards, as he lay on his back on the bed with the current lady of the evening trying to cuddle up next to him, John would feel something empty and cold manifest itself between his spine and his sternum, like a part of him had gotten lost along the way and didn't know how get back.

One can imagine his surprise when that lonesome, icy hollow started to thaw as he filled himself with Ellie Bartowski's cooking and conversation every Sunday night…

Ellie Bartowski.

What a woman. Beautiful, kind, gentle. Strong.

Her mother left the family when she was young and Ellie then became a mother herself, holding it together for her baby brother and her mostly absentee father.

_She's Mary Ann from Gilligan's Island, Mary Poppins and Julia Child, and I'm…I'm… –_ John glanced at the face of his watch _– officially late for dinner!_

He would have gasped in distress, but his throat was too torn up to make a sound.

He had the flu, had it since Saturday evening. It had started as a tickle in the back of his throat that he'd attributed to fumes from the cleanser he'd used to clean the kitchen floor and the bathroom in the morning. Then it became a headache that wouldn't let up after he finished a 5-mile run later that afternoon. The dry cough and muscle pain slammed into him right after dinner.

He spent the rest of the night, the following morning and most of the afternoon telling himself that he did _not_ have any goddamn time to be sick. That he had a dinner to go to and the germs better damn well bug out before he had to hit the shower and get dressed because being late was _not_ an option. That he had a mission and he was going to complete it, goddamnit!

But here he was, still clad in his pajamas, faceplanted against the cool expanse of his spotless floor, hallucinating the sounds of knuckles rapping on wood and a barely audible "John, are you in there?"

The noises registered somewhere in the recesses of his brain and he recognized the knocking pattern and the voice as belonging to Bartowski's sister.

_God, I'm so out of it I'm now imagining her coming to save me...another shot of that day-glow NyQuil and maybe I'll start seeing the Green Fairy! _He needed to clear his head, get himself cleaned up and bring her the wine he'd been chilling in his refrigerator. _On your feet, soldier._

He flattened his palms on the floor and tried to push himself up, disoriented and delirious with pain. He managed to lever himself up a few inches before his muscles seized and gave out on him.

The last thing he heard before he passed out was a woman's muffled voice, calling his name.


	2. Diagnosis

"Hey, babe," Devon said as he sauntered up to the door and handed her a ring of keys, "you were right. Lucky for us good ol' Mr. Lee was home and amenable to lending us his all-access gear."

"Thanks, honey. Hold these!" Ellie said, handing off the containers of dinner and dessert to him as she grabbed the ring and began flipping through it as quickly as she could.

"I still don't see what's got ya all twisted, babe," he commented as he leaned against the doorjamb. "John's a big dude – he can take care of himself."

She whirled on him, still flipping through keys, her voice clipped and calm as she started, but escalating in volume and anxiety as she continued: "John is _never_ late, Devon. _Never_. If he was going to be late, he would call. If he was not going to come, he would call. He hasn't called Chuck; he hasn't called me; he hasn't even been _seen_ since yesterday evening. I think I'm entitled to worry just a little bit, _don't you_?!"

He backed up, holding the Tupperware containers in front of his body for protection. "Easy, babe, easy! I was just sayin' – "

"Ah! Got it!" she exclaimed, spinning back to the door, jamming the key into the lock and turning it.

She flung open the door, rushed in and scanned the room, letting out a small cry as she spied John sprawled on the floor of the kitchen.

"Whoa!" Devon said as Ellie flew to him, knelt down and with some effort, rolled him onto his back. "Do you think he's…?"

"Oh, thank God – he's not dead!" she said as she checked him over. There was no blood, no visible marks on him except the imprint of the tile grouting on his cheek. "John? John, can you hear me?"

John opened his eyes, smiled at her a little dreamily and tried to speak, but all that came out was a weak, desiccated cough.

"Bad cold?" Devon asked, putting the food on the counter and noticing the almost-empty bottle of poison green cold medicine sitting on the counter.

"Could be," Ellie said as she placed a hand on John's chest, "but his coughing is non-productive. My bet's on influenza."

"Fever?" he suggested, crouching down beside her.

She pressed the back of her hand to John's forehead and frowned. It was much hotter than Chuck's had ever been during his childhood bouts of the flu.

"He's burning up," she announced as she smoothed a lock of sweat-dampened hair from his brow. "Honey, can you help me move him to the easy chair? He'll be much more comfortable there."

"Sure, babe," he replied, lifting John carefully under the arms as Ellie struggled with his legs.

It took some doing, but they managed to get him on the easy chair and put it into the recline position, whereupon John immediately tried to curl in on himself like a pillbug, his body desperate for warmth.

"Whoa,' Devon said as Ellie looked around for a blanket to cover John. "He doesn't look so…awesome, does he?"

She tested the texture of John's skin, drawing back slightly as he let out another dry, hacking cough. She couldn't be sure, but he felt like he was well over 100 degrees. He was moderately dehydrated, battling a raging fever and clearly in pain, the muscles in his chest and back fighting hard to make his lungs expel the virus. He needed fluids and something to bring down his fever, fast.

"Devon!"

"Babe!" he replied, snapping to attention.

"I need my cold kit from under the bathroom sink and some Advil, Puff Plus with lotion, Robitussin cough suppressant, Vicks Vaporub, Tamiflu, ginger ale, saltines, chicken broth. Go to the drug store if I'm out of anything. Fast as you can get them!"

Devon's lips moved soundlessly as he imprinted the list into his short-term memory before he clapped his hands together twice and said, "I'm on it!"

He left the door wide open as he exited, but Ellie didn't notice because she was taking the stairs two at a time on a hunt for blankets.

She turned to her right and found nothing in the first bedroom, just some exercise equipment. The next door revealed a stacked washer and dryer – Ellie coveted them for a full five seconds before she moved on. Another door opened to reveal John's linen closet – no blankets, but she did grab two large bath sheets and a pair of washcloths. The last room must be his bedroom.

She open flung the door and stopped cold.

The walls were white and bare and the furniture was plain, but serviceable. Nothing very noteworthy in and of itself – typical bachelor fare. It was the bed that made her eyes go wide.

It was king-sized, low to the ground and made up with crisp white sheets and a blood red U.S. Marine Corps blanket blazoned with the gold eagle, globe and anchor.

She'd always wondered where John had gotten his posture, his manners and his general air of decisiveness.

Now she knew.

She hesitated for a brief moment, instinctively admiring the hospital corners he'd made before she grabbed hold of the blanket and ripped it off the bed with one harsh, wrenching yank.

_Sorry, jarheads, _she thought as she threw it over her shoulder,_ but this is a goddamn emergency!_

Ellie barreled down the stairs and nearly took a header on the last few steps as she spied Morgan bending over her patient, alternately imitating Dirty Harry and Clark the Snotty Preppie from _Good Will Hunting_ as he dug into the dessert container she'd made up for John.

"So ya think I'm the dessert hog, huh, do ya, punk?" Morgan muttered, making a face and shoving a large scoop of shortcake into his mouth. "Yeah? Well, guess what? Even though they're strawberries, I like these apples just _fine_!"

_What the – ?! _Words failed her as she stood there, watching the horror unfold as the front door swung open.

"Morgan!" Chuck squawked from his position in doorway, hands full of a small picnic basket, his eyes and mouth agape. "What. The _hell_. Are you doing?!"

The noise Morgan made as he sprayed bits of fruit, cream and cake all over John's face as he backed up and almost fell over a black equipment case reminded of a pair of pre-teenaged Orange County girls she'd treated two weeks ago in the ER.

The girls had been maxing out their daddies' black Amex cards in a nearby boutique as they test-drove matching pairs of sky-high Christian Louboutins when they simultaneously rolled over and sprained their left ankles – quite the coincidence, but it was immediately forgotten when they found out their favorite actress / singer / trainwreck was getting stitches on the next bed over after her latest alcohol-related car accident.

Morgan had managed to hit almost the exact same pitch as they girls when they spotted the drunk, bloodied, redheaded starlet and shrieked in perfect two-part harmony.

"Chuck! I didn't see you come in here – " Morgan stuttered, spreading the _crème fraiche_ all over his beard as he tried to wipe away the telltale signs he'd been wolfing down John's dessert.

"Get away from my patient, Morgan," Ellie ordered as she dropped the towels and blanket over the back of the recliner.

"Ellie!" Morgan cried, his voice rising an entire scale as she elbowed him out of the way.

John let out a wordless moan of relief as she started tucking the blanket in around him, and curled in on himself even more.

"Gee," Chuck said, craning his neck to get a better view as he put the basket on desk next to the chair, "he looks pretty bad."

She fought to keep her temper as she rearranged the hood of John's sweatshirt so that it covered his neck and head. "Chuck!"

Chuck took an involuntary step back, shocked at the sharpness of her tone. "Uh – yeah?"

"Go back to the apartment and get me a saucepan, my juicer and the sack of blood oranges in the fridge," she ordered as she gently sponged down John's face with a washcloth.

"Why…?"

"Move!" she barked.

"Going, I'm going!" Chuck called as he backpedaled out of the door.

Morgan was still trying to get the _crème fraiche_ out of his beard as he approached her with caution. "And me, um, wha – what can I do?"

_How about a long walk off the Santa Monica Pier for starters?_ was the ruthless thought that first came into her head. She took a deep breath and turned her attention to the eternally juvenile prankster Chuck called his best friend. She looked at him for a moment before she said, "Ice."

Morgan cocked an eyebrow as he blindly searched his beard for whipped topping. "Ice?"

"Ice," she repeated firmly. "You know what kind."

He thought for a moment as he continued to groom himself, searching his memory banks for the correct type. She would have laughed if she'd been looking at him when he finally figured out what she meant, but she was too busy rubbing John's back and crooning soft, nonsensical words to him to notice.

"Right!" Morgan exclaimed, snapping his fingers as he dashed for the door. "Ten minutes round-trip on my trusty steed!"

And then he was gone, too and Dr. Ellie Bartowski was left all alone with a very sick, very vulnerable Major John Casey.

* * *

_Hot…so hot…burning…burning up…_

John fought against consciousness, pleading with his brain to let him sleep. PT and missions had never made his muscles sore like this – he hurt all over, in places he'd never even knew he had. The act of swallowing made him feel like he was trying to force barbed wire down his throat. His forehead was…his forehead was…cool?

He floated up through the fog of pain and fatigue, wondering what angel had descended from heaven to bring blessed relief to the pounding in his skull. His eyelids fluttered and he made out a vague shape leaning over him.

_Dark hair…pale skin…gentle hands…_laskovaya moya_? _

_But she was dead. _

_Am I dead, too?_

Yes, he must be because she was and she was here with him, her touch careful and delicate as she dabbed his forehead with a damp, cool washcloth.

_Okay, maybe this is purgatory – one glimpse of her and then I go to hell?_

He tried to ask her if this was the case, but all that would come out of his mouth was an odd, choked rush of air because his vocal cords had been shredded raw in his throat's battle with the virus.

"Shhhh," she said and he relaxed under her care. If his next stop was the fiery pit, he might as well enjoy this brief interlude while he could.

A few seconds later he felt a straw press against his lips. He opened his mouth and sucked in a bit of fluid. It was water, it was ice-cold, and it felt so very, very good as it slid over his tongue and down his throat. He drank as much as he could, but his neck muscles started to hurt after a few sips.

The straw disappeared and the damp washcloth was back, cooling his forehead and cheeks.

The sweet voice spoke again: "Think you can manage some ibuprofen?"

He nodded, but he was puzzled by her pronounciation.

_Her accent – it's gone. _John struggled to open his eyes again. _The same dark hair, the same pale skin, but her eyes are grey, not brown…Ellie Bartowski?_

"Hi there," she said as she smiled down at him, her voice low and soft.

It still hurt his ears, but not as much as the inane chattering of that nasty little bearded gremlin who taunted him earlier and then sprayed him with moist and spongy bits of something icky and sticky. He put his hand up to wipe away the residue, but found that most of it was gone due to her tender and thorough clean-up of his face.

"Ready for the pills?"

He nodded. _Pain reliever would be more than welcome about now._

She placed a pair of tan tablets on his tongue and offered the straw again.

He downed them carefully, chasing them with as much water as he could sip before his throat flamed up again in protest.

"Easy, easy," she said as he struggled, his faced contorted with the effort of swallowing.

He sank deeper into the cushion of the chair and turned his head to look at her.

She met his eyes and smiled. "You're probably wondering why I'm here."

He nodded again, his eyes struggling to stay open.

"You weren't at dinner, so I got worried about you," she said as she placed the cool, damp, folded cloth on his forehead. "Devon borrowed the keys from Mr. Lee and we 'broke in' and I found you passed out on the kitchen floor over there. We moved you to the chair because we thought you'd rest more easily. You've got the flu and you've got it bad, so I'm going to take care of you until your fever breaks. That okay with you?"

_Okay with me?_ He squinted at her, his brain working hard to think coherently. _I've got a mark to keep tabs on, a helluva lot of hi-tech spying equipment hooked up here in the living room, and a bonafide arsenal in my bedroom, all of which are bound to make you _very_ curious, ma'am. Hell, no, it's not okay with me – I _cannot_ allow you to blow my cover!_

The plethora of electronics and communications paraphernalia blinking and buzzing and skirling behind her was bound to cause any normal person to comment, but She seemed not to notice. Her attention was focused squarely on re-tucking the blanket around his shoulders as he rolled a little onto his side and fought his way through another coughing fit.

_Oh, God, I can't afford to be sick…no matter how nice it feels to be taken care of, _he thought as his body tried to jackknife in half while his bronchial tubes spasmed in a brutal, choking rhythm.

"You're absolutely right," she said, turning to the pile of items on the table. She reached into the picnic basket next to her and came up with a dark bottle which she held up to the light and swirled. "Not much in here, but I think it'll do the trick until Devon gets back."

He eyed the bottle blearily as his lungs quieted. He'd had a solid eight doses of NyQuil in the past 24 hours and he didn't see how this would make much of a difference. And it was bound to taste just as terrible, too.

"This is an antitussive – a cough suppressant," she explained patiently as she measure out a dose into a soup spoon that she produced from the picnic basket. "Your throat is torn up because you've been coughing very hard – it needs time to heal and this will help."

He grimaced, his hand coming out from under the blanket to deflect her attempt to administer the medicine, but that just sparked another coughing fit and his hand ended up fisting in the fabric.

"John," she chided, her hand steady as she held the spoon, "your body wants to fight the fever, but it can't do that if it's too busy trying to make you cough up one or both of your lungs."

_She's right_, he thought as he rode out the hacking and wheezing. _I'll be reaching for the Glock I keep under the cushion if I gotta weather another of these. _He relented and let her dose him.

"Good job," she said, her voice full of motherly approval as she readjusted the blanket around him and took the cloth from his forehead. "Now try to get some sleep, okay?"

_Sleep? I am Major John Casey, USMC, NSA agent, crack-shot and all-around badass motherfucker,_ he scolded himself as he struggled to keep his eyes open. _I do not relax my defenses. I do not fall asleep on the job. I do not allow gorgeous women to baby me, no matter how much I want them to…_

His gaze shot to his computer set-up, where the entirety of his mission was spelled out in minute detail, including, among other choice tidbits of classified information, his directive to terminate the human Intersect once the machine was up and running. Yes, the screensavers were individually password-protected, but Ellie Bartowski wasn't an idiot.

She might be intelligent enough to break at least one of the codes, and not only would he be compromised, but he would also have a hell of a lot of explaining to do to a woman he would like to remain on good terms with, if only to be able to keep on enjoying her spectacular cooking…

His hand unclenched from the blanket, groped on the desk for something and came up with a pad and a pen.

She watched silently, wondering what he was doing.

He scribbled down a quick question:

_Are you acting in an official capacity as my doctor?_

She looked at the question and then looked at him. "Right now, I'm just a friend, but I could be if we need to take you to the emergency room and you need someone to be your advocate. Do you feel like you want to go?"

He shook his head in the negative (which started a smaller, less violent coughing fit) as he wrote:

_Can I trust you to respect doctor-patient privilege?_

"Yes, of course," she replied. "But I'm an ER doctor, not a psychiatrist. Unless your condition is a breach of national security, it's not going to fall under physician-patient privilege."

He thought for a moment before he wrote:

_Retired USMC. Still consulting for military._

_Lot of sensitive materials in apartment…_

"I understand," she said. "You want my promise that I'm not going to go snooping into any of your documents or files, right?"

He nodded, and for a moment he looked like he was about to start coughing again, but the anti-tussive had finally kicked in.

"I give you my word that I will keep confidential anything and everything I witness in this apartment," she said, raising her hand and giving him a cheery grin. "Including any kind of embarrassing incidents involving unexpected bodily secretions."

John closed his eyes and groaned. _Why, oh why, does the sister have to have the same sense of humor as the brother?_

Ellie grinned. "Oops, bet I sounded just like Chuck at his flippant best there for a minute, didn't I? Let's see, what can I give you as an assurance…?"

He watched her through bleary eyes as she bit her lip and thought for a bit.

Her eyes lit up a moment later and she took the pad and pen from his hands, scribbled a word and a number, and signed her name. She handed it to John, he looked at it, and his eyebrows rose.

"Yep, that's what I really weigh," she said, tapping the number she'd just written. "Now you have some collateral because that's something of mine that I don't want _anyone_ to know."

He stared at her. _You're talking about your weight while I'm dealing with tremendously sensitive information, the leaking of which could cause potentially catastrophic consequences? You have got to be kidding me..._

"Got to sleep, John," she said, her eyes locking with his as she pushed that stray lock of hair from his forehead once more. "I promise I won't reveal any of your secrets."

His mind was screaming at him to stay awake – _you never know who's really a spy until she ties you to a bedframe and takes pictures of you in your cloverleaf boxers!_ – but his body plainly trusted her because his eyes had drifted shut before she'd finished her sentence.

For the first time in a very long while, John Casey relaxed his guard and surrendered himself to a woman's care as he went to sleep.


	3. Treatment

"How's the patient, babe?"

"Is he better or worse?"

"Any nasty green boogers coming out yet?"

"Quiet – all of you!" Ellie hissed as she put her hands up for silence.

The guys' mouths snapped shut and the only sound she could hear was the hum of crickets as they warmed up for their evening sonata.

She took a deep breath. "Right now he's resting, but he won't be for much longer the way you all keep yammering on. Now hand over the goods."

They wordlessly held out their offerings.

She took the two large bags of ice from Morgan and stashed them in the freezer with John's array of gourmet frozen TV dinners.

She returned to the line up and looked at the shortest of her minions. "Good job, Morgan - that was some quality rabbit ice. You can go."

"But – "

"There's leftover Lady Baltimore cake in the fridge," she said, interrupting him without hesitation.

"See ya!" he whispered before he dashed off.

"Sis, dontcha think _I_ should be the one to stay with him?" Chuck asked slowly as she took the pan, the juicer and the oranges from him and put them on the immaculate kitchen counter. "He is my friend, after all…"

"Yeah, babe," Devon added as she divested him of the two plastic bags of drug store purchases and placed them gently on the desk along with her basket. "Chuck and John are buds and you're just – "

"I'm just 'what'?" she asked as she returned to the door and folded her arms.

"Run," Chuck whispered to Devon as he nudged him with an elbow.

"Huh?" Devon whispered back.

She set her jaw and looked away for a moment before returning her attention to her boyfriend and her brother. "Do you think I'm not _qualified_ to look after him? Is that it?"

"_Run_," Chuck repeated, a little louder this time as he gave his sister a feeble grin. "Quick, before she detonates."

"Need I remind the both of you that not only am I a medical doctor, but that I am also board-certified in _emergency_ medicine?" she fumed, her eyes glowing like moonlight on titanium. "And correct me if I am wrong, but this definitely qualifies as an emergency!"

"Babe, he's just got the flu," Devon protested, holding up his hands. "No need to get testy – "

Ellie's eyes flashed and narrowed as she stepped closer to him. "Testy? You think I'm _testy_?"

"Uh-oh," Chuck muttered, taking a step back.

"He's dehydrated, he has a raging fever, and there's a very good possibility that he might have some kind of gastrointentestinal incident before he pulls through," she said, her voice escalating in volume and heat as she ticked off John's symptoms on her fingers. "Either of you have a burning desire to find out?"

"Nope, not me!" Chuck said, his shoulders tight against his neck as he raised his hand. "I'm outta here!"

"Chuck, dude, ya can't just leave your bud when he's sick," Devon called after him. "Come on, bud, what's a little GI distress in the grand scheme of things?"

Chuck didn't answer – he was already across the courtyard and inside the apartment before Devon got his final words out.

She nodded with grim satisfaction. "Baby brother never could keep his cool when dealing with bodily fluids."

"Babe, you sure you wanna do this? It's just the flu," Devon said, his voice completely neutral as he braced for impact.

"He's really sick, Devon," she said before she took a deep breath and pushed her hair back from her forehead. "I haven't seen anyone this bad in a long time. From what Chuck's told me, John doesn't have a lot of people in Los Angeles he can call on in a pinch – he needs someone to look after him. I've got tomorrow off, so I have the time."

"But you were planning to spend it sleeping and maybe watching the _Top Chef_ marathon on Bravo," he pointed out.

"I know," she said. "There's nothing saying I won't be able to if his fever breaks before then."

"Honey, if he's that sick, why don't you take him to the ER?"

"There's not much they can do for him that I can't do here," she replied, indicating the apartment. "And I'm sure he'll feel much more comfortable recuperating in the privacy of his own home."

He put his hands on her shoulders and massaged them a bit. "Okay, babe, you convinced me. Just don't bring that bug home, okay? Me and the brothers are gonna go parasailing next Saturday."

"You got it," she promised, giving him a quick kiss. "See you tomorrow?"

"Maybe," he said, kissing her back. "I'm on call, though – might have to go in if there's any emergency surgery that's needed. I'll see you on Tuesday at the latest."

"Night, honey," she whispered before she closed the door and went to check on John.

He was still asleep in his recliner so she let him be and headed for the kitchen.

It was stocked with the usual array of baking and cooking equipment, but she had noticed that he didn't have a juicer when she first entered.

While there was plenty of frozen concentrate cozying up to his microwavable dinners in his freezer, she didn't cotton to the idea of juice from a can, especially for a man as sick as he was. John would need plenty of vitamin C and fluids over the next few hours, so why not take care of both with one medium?

_Excellent taste_, she thought, noting the manufacturer as she drew a chef's knife from the butcher block and located a cutting board.

She washed and sliced four of the blood oranges in half and extracted a cup of juice with her manual juicer. She added some of Morgan's ice and placed the cup in the refrigerator to cool, then put the eight halves of the oranges into a plastic gallon container, added cold water and put that in the fridge as well.

_Flavored water might go down more easy than the pure stuff in the beginning, and there's no need to discard the pulp. If his nap is successful, his fever's going to come down a bit and he might be able to eat_, she reasoned as she set about making chicken soup.

She washed the cutting board, opened up the entrée container and selected a piece of breast meat, which she sliced and dumped in the pot. She soon had two cans of chicken broth and small slivers of chicken and some rice from John's leftovers dish simmering on the stovetop. _His throat is torn up something bad and rice will go down easier than noodles_, she reasoned as she stirred and looked around.

John's apartment was one of two double-deckers in the complex; the superintendant, Mr. Lee, lived in the other one.

Ellie and Devon had considered moving into this apartment when they were first scouting locations near Kaiser Santa Rosa, but they reasoned that they could get along just as well in a one-floor and save more money for the house she supposed they would be buying someday in the future when they were married.

_Or should I say, "if" we get married, considering we're not even engaged. _

She shrugged and blew her hair out of her eyes as she stirred. She was in charge of balancing both her checkbook and Devon's, and there hadn't been any telltale expenditures for high-end jewelry in the past six years they'd dated. She highly doubted they would get engaged this year, not when there were things like parasailing weekends and white water rafting trips for Devon to engage in with the brothers of Zeta Beta Tau and his little woman at home, keeping him fed and watered in addition to the housework and brother-sitting she did.

She'd spent enough weekends rock-climbing, wind-surfing and water-skiing to know that they weren't exactly compatible when it came to where they wanted to expend their energy: he liked an easy-going job and vigorous weekends, while her job was extremely stressful and all she wanted to do on her time off was unwind.

Their chosen fields were exact matches for their preferences: sucking excess fat out of and putting breast implants into bored, rich Hollywood wives took up most of Devon's working hours while she was on her feet from the second she reported to the ER until the second she clocked out of it.

He would come home from an eight-hour day of perfecting the already perfect and want to get frisky and she felt no shame in wearing her ugliest pajamas to bed just to avoid his "hey, babe, you wanna do it?" invitation to sex. There were nights when she barely made it to bed because she was too tired to see straight and she was in no mood to deal with his hurt expression if she had to tell him "no". Thankfully, he was trained well enough to realize that when the Eeyore pajamas made an appearance, they were not coming off until she was ready for her shower the next morning.

_Emergency medicine is tough on relationships, but I knew that was the nature of the beast when I chose it,_ she told herself as she taste-tested the soup.

It was yummy, but it could use a little more in the way of spices. Granny Bartowski always said that what sick people needed was hearty food that would give them a little "kick in the keister" to get the body's defenses running at their best, so she took the black pepper from the spice rack and added a bit to the pot. She replaced the pepper tin and tasted the soup again.

_A little better, but it could use something else. _

She reached for the tarragon, flipped the top open and was about to shake a bit into the soup when she saw the small, disc-shaped wafer attached to the back of the cylinder. It was thin, elegant, almost transparent, a work of art in its miniature construction.

She glanced at John. He was sleeping soundly on the recliner.

_Interesting. Wonder what it's for…maybe some kind of tracking device?_

She sniffed the spice to make sure that it actually _was_ tarragon and not some kind of genetically-engineered hemp derivative before she put it in the soup. She'd already gone through the "thou shalt _not_ do pot when you live under my roof" conversation with Chuck and she really didn't want to have a doped-up patient on her hands – not that it wouldn't be funny to see John loosen up a bit.

_The only time I see him get really comfortable is when he's washing his car…_

She glanced out the window as she stirred the soup in a lazy figure-eight pattern and cringed. His Crown Vic did not look happy. In fact, it looked rather sad and lonely, not to mention unkempt – it was ornamented with more than a few dead leaves and there were ashen streaks where birds had used the windshield for target practice.

She replaced the container, turned the dial on the stovetop to "low" and looked under the sink. There were a large number of cleaning products all lined up in a row, ready for action. She grabbed a clear container full of blue liquid, a couple of paper towels and looked for John's keys.

Another quick check on John and she left the apartment and headed for the parking lot, remembering to take his keys with her as she locked the door behind her.

* * *

_Why am I doing this?_ she asked herself as she spritzed Windex on the windshield and wiped it down.

_Because it's dirty and it needs to be cleaned_, she answered herself as she used a paper towel to push leaves off of the roof, trunk and hood of the car.

_Yes, but don't you think that this is a little, um, _weird_, Dr. Bartowski?_

_Why?_

_Well, some people might think it's a little…you know...intimate._

_Oh, come on. It's just his car._

_Yes, but this man gets mighty particular about his vehicle._

_Okay, maybe so, but it keeps me from getting bored and poking around in his private stuff._

_Fair enough…carry on, doctor._

"There," she said, running a gentle hand over the Crown Vic's body as she finished up. "Bet that feels a lot better, doesn't it?"

The car didn't answer, but Ellie experienced a moment of zen at the sight of a nice, clean windshield as she she whipped out her cellphone and took a picture of her handiwork.

* * *

_Waking up the second time isn't as bad the first_, John thought as he opened his eyes. He was still uncomfortably warm, but he didn't feel like he wanted to climb out of his skin like he did when he first came 'round. He adjusted his body a little and winced – his muscles plainly told him were _not_ happy as they tried to cramp up on him. Just the pain in his neck alone made him grit his teeth.

Ellie was at his side in a moment, orange juice in hand. "Still hurt to swallow?"

He tested his throat. There was a little pain, but not as bad as before. He shook his head, which started a coughing fit, but it didn't leave him reaching for the Glock.

"Here, drink this," she said, giving him the cup. "It looks like pink grapefruit juice, but it's actually made from blood oranges – they're not as tart as Valencias or navels."

He sipped it and smiled. The juice was a little bit sweet, a little bit sour and a little bit slushy.

"That's what we call 'rabbit pellet' ice," she explained as he chewed on the small frozen pieces of ice in the juice. "Chuck likes it in his OJ when he's sick. He says it helps keep him hydrated."

He gave her a thumbs-up as he drank and munched.

She felt his forehead and scowled. "You're still a little warm, so I'm going to take your temperature and we'll go from there."

He set the orange juice down on the desk, watching her as she as she took the thermometer out of the basket and fitted a plastic sheath over it. Ordinarily he would have chuckled at the adorable sight of her eyes narrowing and her lips puckering as she slid it under his tongue, but he kept his laughter in check – she looked so damn serious and he want to offend her even though he felt like a Thanksgiving turkey as he sat there with his lips clamped around the instrument.

"Sixty seconds," she ordered, tapping the face of her watch.

They sat there looking at each other, she perched on the equipment case, he reclining in his chair, impromptu doctor and unexpected patient watching each other with friendly smiles as they waited. It made him more than a little uncomfortable, just how damn comfortable he felt letting her take care of him…

His stomach saved him from further introspection by growling so loud that they both jumped.

"Hungry?" she asked, taking the thermometer from his mouth.

He nodded.

"Good, that's a sign that you're getting better," she said with a grin before she looked at the thermometer and shook her head. "Hmmm…101 degrees – you're still spiking. You're probably feeling a little better, but not one hundred percent yet, right?"

He nodded again, inclined to agree with her assessment. He still felt warm and weak, but at least he was hungry now.

"I made some chicken soup while you were out of it," she announced as she dropped the plastic sheath in the wastebasket. "You feel up to having some?"

_Chicken soup? Is she for real? Hot damn!_ John nodded and gave her two very enthusiastic thumbs up.

Ellie giggled and patted him on the shoulder as she brushed by him on her way to the kitchen.

_Wonder if admiring the way she fills out a pair of jeans is a sign that I'm getting better…?_ he thought as he watched her walk away. His neck chose that exact moment to spasm on him and he bit back a curse as he rode out the pain. _Oh, yeah…I deserved that._

"Now you eat every little bit of this," she ordered as she placed the bowl on the desk next to him.

He obeyed, using the time to study her carefully as he ate. No changes to her eye contact, no nervous twitching, no uneasy chattering coming from her, just warmth and concern radiating from every pore as she sat with him.

_Bless her cotton socks, she'd kept her promise not to snoop._

He was glad. He didn't want to kill her. She was a nice, sweet, un-fucking-believably gorgeous American girl. And a damn fine cook to boot – the soup was smooth, filling, rich, and a little spicy, just the way like he liked it.

Then again, she might be related to his drill instructor; after a glass of cool, orange-flavored water, she made him drink a hot liquid called Tamiflu.

It made him gag, but he forced it down because he'd shoot himself before admitting he was a chickenshit when it came to things that tasted bad. The last thing he wanted was listening in on her telling stories to Chuck or Agent Walker during Game Night about his inability to take his medicine. No way he was going to reveal _anything_ that would ever cause him to get teased by those two.

She followed up the evil witch's brew with another dose of cough medicine and ibuprofen before she stood up and put her hands on her hips.

"You need some more sleep, but that recliner you're in right now won't be near as comfortable to wake up in the second time around. Think between the two of us we can get you upstairs to your bed?"

He considered her words, the chair, the throbbing crick in his neck. Much as he wanted to close his eyes and go back to sleep, he knew that she was right. He'd be out of commission for a good week if he didn't get upstairs and sleep the rest of this flu bug out of his system in a real bed.

He lowered his hand to the recliner's mechanism and pulled the footrest back into the closed position. She took the blanket from him and hefted it over her shoulder before she assisted him with getting out of the chair.

"Whoa, you _are_ tall," she muttered as she put his arm around her shoulders and they hiked towards the stairs. "By the way, don't think you're doing this alone – I'm a sturdy girl, so you're not gonna squish me if you lean on me a little, okay?"

Much as John hated to admit it, he did have to let himself lean on her as they ascended the staircase because his knees threatened to give out on him a couple of times. But good, sweet, dependable Ellie was there for him each time he felt himself start to list, her breath soft and strained as she worked to keep him vertical.

"Just a few more steps and we're there," she said, not noticing when his hand slipped from her shoulders to her waist, wrapped around and grabbed on tight for dear life as she shored him up yet again. "Doing a great job, John. Just a little further…"

They made it to the bed just in time and somehow she managed a feat of amazing dexterity, flipping the covers back as he fell headfirst onto the mattress. He stretched out bit by bit as she covered him up, making sure he had not only the sheet, but that crimson monstrosity of military pride tucked up around his shoulders.

"Whew!" she exclaimed, stretching as she viewed her handiwork. "Now your mission, if you choose to accept it – and you'd _better_ – is to sweat that fever out in the next few hours. We clear on that, sir?"

He managed to summon up enough energy to give her a sharp, respectful salute.

She returned it as best she could, keeping a straight face as he motioned for her to adjust her elbow a little bit to the correct the height and angle.

"All right then," she said, putting a glass of ice water and the box of Puffs Plus on his nightstand. "Got any good books for me to read while you kick some viral butt?"

He motioned to the short bookcase by the computer desk and she went over and selected a few volumes.

"Okay, we've got _101 Things You Should Never Ask a Marine to Do_, _Marine! The Life of Chesty Puller_, and _Chesty Puller's Rules of Success_," she said, displaying the books for his perusal. "That should keep me out of trouble, right?"

He gave her a grave nod, impressed with her taste.

"Well, then, uh…you get some sleep and…I'll, uh, I'll be downstairs – reading – if you need anything," she said, giving him a bashful grin as she turned out the light and left.

He was glad he couldn't speak because he came pretty damn close to asking her to stay with him as he went to sleep.

He'd suffered through the flu, among other nasty illnesses, in some of the most hellish locations on earth – Beirut in '82, Grenada in '83, the Panama Canal Zone in '89, Kuwait in '90 – and he'd pulled through all by himself with no one to feed him, no one to fuss over him because he was a Marine.

Marines did not complain. They did not whine. They did not reveal weakness under any circumstances.

Maybe this flu had its reasons for infesting his body – to show him how truly whipped he was where Ellie Bartowski was concerned.

He was already a chowhound with regards to her cooking. If he kept having these inappropriate thoughts about her, he might as well be chairborne – chained to a goddamn desk in the Pentagon, pushing paper for his paycheck until they put him out to pasture.

First thing he was going to do when he recovered was un-fuck himself, good and proper.

Step One: wean his tastebuds off of the Intersect's sister's addictive cuisine.

Step Two: get his head back into his main mission: playing secret squirrel in this clusterfuck of an assignment.

Step Three: complete the mission and get a new assignment.

One that didn't make him work in a shithole like the Buy More, nut to butt with wastes of space like Jeff, Lester and that short, evil stock-jockey, Morgan.

One where he was able to shoot things more often.

Preferably with a rocket launcher.

He snuggled deeper into his bed, glad to have recognized that he was sliding down the slippery slope of civilian grab-assing and was able to stop the action before he compromised himself.

He had a plan, and by God, he was going to _follow it_.

_Even if it means I gotta stop being friends with her…_

John felt an unexpected twinge deep in the recesses of his chest at that thought, but he chalked it up to the flu trying to attack his lungs again. He reached over, plucked a tissue from the box, blew his nose and coughed a little.

It didn't do much good – the pain was still there when he rolled onto his side, wrapped his arms around himself and went to sleep.


	4. Convalescing

_Ya tebya lyublyu…_

"_John…?"_

_Ya dastanu tebe zvyozdee snebes…_

"_John, wake up…"_

_Ya tebya lyblyu, laskovaya moya…ya ne magu bez tebya shzit…_

"_Wake up, John…wake up…" _

He came awake with a start, his muscles tensing as he sucked in a ragged breath and gripped the hand that had shaken him out of his delirium.

_Ilsa!_ He opened his eyes and felt his heart lurch a little. _No, not Ilsa…Ellie._

"Hey," she said, her hand involuntarily clasping his hand in one of her own as she smoothed his hair from his forehead with the other. "You were talking in your sleep."

_Oh, fuck... Please let it have been in a language she doesn't understand._

"I didn't know you spoke Russian," she said, smiling down at him.

_Didn't know you did either_, he thought to himself as he tried to adjust his position in bed. He was more clearheaded than he'd been in days and it didn't hurt to think anymore, but there was a downside to this newfound clarity: head-to-toe, he was drenched in rank, oily sweat. _Ugh…_

"Good work, Marine," she said cheerfully as she used the hood of his sweatshirt to wipe at his forehead. "Your fever broke while you were out of it."

He slowly turned his head to look at the clock. It was almost five in the morning. He was due to report to the General Beckman and Director Graham in a little more than three hours.

He had to get her out of here, _pronto_.

Unfortunately, she was not a mindreader.

"C'mon, big guy," she said, flipping back the covers. "Bathroom time!"

He had no idea how it happened. One moment he was lying on his back, contemplating how he was going to word the text message to Sarah asking her to hustle Ellie out of the apartment before the morning briefing, the next he was in the bathroom and she was closing the door on him to give him some privacy while he took care of business.

_Fuck this diddling with Intersect shit_, John said to himself as he lifted the lid, _put Ellie Bartowski in the field and watch the terrorists scream like little girls as they scatter like sheep before her._

* * *

"Probably took a lot out of you just to wake up, didn't it?" she asked as she helped him sit on the edge of the tub.

He nodded, his face contorting as he struggled to get comfortable. He was getting better, but he still had a long way to go.

He was not going to make it into the Buy More today, that much was certain, but he wondered what in the world he was going to do with himself. He'd read every single book in his home at least twice and his bonsais were not due for trimming for another three days.

"Well you are in for a treat," she declared, bending down and reaching for the zipper of his black hooded sweatshirt, "because you are going to feel _so_ much better after a shower!"

His hands closed over her wrists and she looked up to find him staring at her with an expression on his face of the "excuse me, ma'am, but what the hell do you think you are doing?" variety.

"I'm helping you get undressed," she explained.

"Oh no, you're not," his eyes seemed to say as he removed her hands from his sweatshirt and looked at her.

"Don't worry, I'm a doctor," she assured him. "This is _completely_ professional."

His eyes narrowed as he turned his head a little to the right, considering her. He was not convinced.

She laughed a little as she sank onto her haunches and made the Girl Scouts hand gesture. "On my honor as Chuck's sister, I solemnly swear I am only trying to assist you out of your clothes!"

He stared at her for a few seconds before his eyebrows twitched upwards and Ellie realized what she'd just said. She blushed beet red and covered her face with her hands.

"Oh my God! That did not come out right at all!"

He patted her shoulder in mock commiseration, chuckling without sound as she giggled into her palms.

"Okay, okay, no more of this silliness," she said, lifting her head and grinning at him as she flipped her bangs out of her eyes. "Let's get you cleaned up."

He nodded and allowed her to help him out of his sweatshirt, which left him in a plain white t-shirt, black sweatpants and whatever undergarments he happened to be wearing.

She dropped the sweatshirt on the floor – she would wash it, along with the sheets on the bed and the rest of the clothes he was wearing, while he was in the shower.

He had a little trouble with the t-shirt, and she helped him with that, too, pulling it over his head as he held up his arms and dropping it on the floor next to the sweatshirt. When she turned back to him, she found he had managed to drag himself onto his feet.

He now stood facing her, one hand maintaining a death grip on the shower rod as he tried to keep his balance.

_He has a really nice chest_, she thought absently as she went for the waistband of his sweatpants.

Once again, he gripped her wrists, but this time he easily captured both of hers in the hand that wasn't holding on for dear life to keep him from falling over and crashing into her.

"Hey, I'm not trying to take advantage of you," she scolded, shaking her head at him as he extracted her hands from his pants. "That fever took a lot out of you and I think you could use some help getting ready for your shower."

He shook his head at her as he released her wrists, stumbled into the tub and slid the shower curtain close.

"We get _all_ kinds in the ER, John," she called over the thin white plastic barrier. "It's not like you've got anything I haven't seen before."

No response, just the rustle of clothing.

"You know, Chuck mentioned you had a Puritanical streak, but I didn't think it was this bad," she teased.

He pulled aside the curtain just enough to give her his sweatpants, boxers, and a ferocious scowl before yanking it back in place and turning the shower on full blast.

"That expression may work on my brother and his friends, John Casey, but it doesn't scare me one little bit," Ellie declared, pitching her voice so she could be heard over the water.

He responded by flinging water droplets at her over the shower curtain.

"All right, all right! I'm going!" she yelped, scooping up his clothing as she beat a hasty retreat.

* * *

John took his time working the shampoo through his hair and the soap over his body, grateful for the steam that was temporarily soothing his inflamed respiratory tract.

He hadn't been this sick in God only knew how long and if Ellie hadn't come looking for him, it was very likely that he would still be lying on the kitchen floor, running a high grade fever and being haunted by visions of his dead lover.

But maybe that would be preferable to what he was going to have to do when he got out of the shower: he was going to have to stop seeing her.

_Hold on one goddamn minute and back the hell up, _he told himself. _"Seeing" her? Since when am I "seeing" her?!_

_It's not a bad idea,_ his inner voice replied. _If she ever breaks up with that dillweed she calls her boyfriend, it would be the perfect cover – dating her would keep you close to the Intersect and you could break up with her before you had to put the kid down…_

He glanced down and his eyes widened.

Obviously, a certain part of him was not in any way averse to the arrangement. In fact, despite his being sick as a dog, it was downright enthusiastic about the notion.

_Hey, Dr. Bartowski, do you think getting a hard-on at the thought of you naked is a sign that I'm getting better? _He grinned as he imagined her reaction to the question.

_Why, yes, John, I'd imagine that _would_ qualify._

He shook his head as he finished washing up. He had to stop going down this mental tunnel because it was just going to lead to trouble of the Prague-variety and he had no interest in anyone getting a third picture of him chained to a headboard, his clover boxers on display for anyone to see.

_Betcha she looks fan-fucking-tastic in nothing but her birthday suit, _his below-the-belt brain mused idly.

_Shut up!_ he thought at it. _I am not going to pay attention to you so you'd just better settle down, all right?_

_Okay! I was just saying…_

_She is a good, kind, respectable woman –_ he scolded mentally.

_With a really nice rack!_ it retorted gleefully as it bobbed a little.

_Please go away,_ he wheedled, _I'm too tired to deal with you right now. I'm going to need her help to get dressed and she's going to come back here in a moment and see you and let's just say that I'm not up to making introductions at this point in time._

He said a silent prayer of thanks as it heard and obeyed…for now.

* * *

A few minutes later he was clad in boxers and a pair of athletic pants, mutely arguing with her as she tried to anoint his face with shaving foam.

"Oh, stop being such a big baby," she ordered, pushing his hand out of the way as she wielded the brush. "I swear, you're worse than Chuck when he needs to get a haircut!"

Between the time she'd presented him with fresh clothing (back turned to give him some privacy, but still there to catch him if he collapsed) and he'd brushed his teeth, she caught him eyeing his day-old stubble with pain.

John liked having a perfectly smooth face, and that growth, short as it was, made him feel, well..._unkempt_. Like he was some kind of Wild West desperado on the run.

If he was particular about anything, it was shaving. Being cleanshaven was something he and his father had in common, one of the few things they agreed on outside of the Corps. He made do in the field, but cushy assignments like this one made it possible for him to indulge in his love of the perfect shave.

He had all of the tools laid out on his counter – pure badger brush, pewter mug, bay rum-scented glycerine shaving cream, classic safety razor – and the moment Ellie saw his eyes dart to his reflection and scowl at himself, she sprang into action.

She waited for him to finish with his teeth, then rinsed the sink, filled it with hot water and put the brush in to soak.

"Stay," she told him, slinging his towel around his neck as she plunked him on the toilet seat.

It galled him to know that the combination of her tone of voice and his lack of energy would ensure that he obeyed her.

She opened his tin of shaving cream and inhaled slowly. "Mmmm…no wonder you smell so nice."

_Don't even think about it,_ he warned his "little brain".

It twitched a little just to make sure he knew it heard him.

"Okay, if I remember correctly, we start with the brush – " she retrieved said item from the sink and held it upside down to let the water run out – "and I swirl it in the cream."

John watched, mesmerized as her fingers rolled the brush tips in the shaving cream in a circular motion, gathering lather. She turned it upside down again and advanced on him, plainly intent on applying it. That was when he put his hand up to take the brush from her.

He knew if she got as close as she needed to get to be able to start painting his face, he was not going to be able to concentrate on not getting hard.

Ellie had slept in the recliner all night, and it showed. Her hair was messy, her makeup was completely gone, her clothes were wrinkled, but she was still the sexiest woman he'd ever seen, Ilsa included.

There was no way in hell he was going to be able to keep from showing that in the most basic, animalistic way Mother Nature invented for a man to tell a woman that he was interested in her.

"Stop it," she commanded as she neatly evaded his attempts to grab the brush. "I don't care how many people you've shot – you're the patient, I'm the doctor, so just sit there and behave or I'll make you."

He froze and gave her the eyebrow.

She stood above him, a very stern look on her face. "I've restrained heroin addicts going through convulsive withdrawal, John Casey. Marine or not, I can take you."

_I'll bet you can_, he thought, half-believing her.

"Now, you are going to stop fighting me and let me shave you or I am going to make you drink more Tamiflu. We clear?"

_Yes, ma'am_, he nodded, fully buying into her authority in this situation.

"Good. Now just relax and it'll be over before you know it," she said with a smile as she began coating his face with shaving foam.

* * *

He had to sit on his hands to keep them from reaching for her hips as she bent over him.

She was giving him an unwitting view down her shirt as she ran the razor over his cheeks, his jaw, his throat. Her breasts were on the smallish side, but they were so _her_ – not too much, not to little, just completely fucking perfect.

And that little line that appeared between her eyebrows as she moved the razor, slow and sure, down his left cheek…adorable, _adorable_ in every goddamn way.

He wanted her.

_Fuck._

When in this lifetime was he finally going to catch a goddamn break?!

He was on assignment and she was the _sister_ of his mark.

And she was taken. _Very_ taken.

He barely kept from whimpering when the small, pink tip of her tongue poked out from between her lips as she shaved the tricky spot under his chin.

She was a _lady_, for chrissakes! She didn't deserve to have a scumbag like him lusting over her while she looking after his invalid ass!

But here he was, like always, in the middle of a goatfuck of epic proportions: recovering from the worst flu he'd ever had in his life and contemplating a million and one ways to get her naked and make her moan his name.

"Oh, John…you are _such_ a trooper," she said as ran her delicate, skilled fingers over his throat. "Ready to rinse?"

He nodded, grateful that she turned her back to him while she rinsed the razor off because it gave him a chance to stand up and adjust himself out of sight. She drained the warm, foamy water out of the sink, filled it back up with cold, clear water and he splashed his face and patted himself dry.

_Damn good job,_ he acknowledged, running a hand over his jaw.

"Aftershave?" she asked, offering him the bottle.

He poured some out into his palm and spread it over his face, marveling at how good a job she'd done. He had decades of shaving under belt, and here she'd gone and done just as good as he at his best.

"Thanks," she said, going off of his expression as she handed him a t-shirt which said "My Guns Are Outlawed" across the front. She took him by the hand and guided him back into his bedroom. "Back to bed with you, mister."

_She's made the bed up with fresh sheets,_ he realized with dismay, gaping at the crisp new linens as he put on the t-shirt. _She's bound to have come across the gear!_

"Oh, don't worry, I put them over there on your bookcase," she said, guessing at the reason for his discomfort.

He breathed a sigh of relief as he visually confirmed that the three guns, two knives and grenade he'd hidden between the mattress and box spring were present and accounted for. She didn't appear to be upset by his "princess and the pea" set-up – interesting.

"No such thing as an ex-Marine," she commented as she gave him a little shove in the direction of the bed.

He knew better than to argue with her as he crawled back under the covers and submitted gracefully to yet another dose of the cough suppressant.

"Now you go to sleep," she said, running a hand through her hair. "I'm going over to my place to get a shower, a nap and some food for you. You are not allowed to eat anything out of your freezer on my watch, mister."

He gave her a look of absolute adoration as he nodded, his mind working overtime at conjuring all sorts of delicious things she was going to make him eat as he got better.

She smiled and gave him a little wave as she left.

He was smart enough to make sure she was really gone before he reached for his Blackberry.

John sent a quick pair of texts: one to Beckman and one to Walker, letting them know that he was out of commission for the day. Then he put the device back on the nightstand and went to sleep.

* * *

"Here we go with my patented 'get better soon' lunch: more chicken soup and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich," Ellie announced as she appeared in the doorway six hours later bearing a tray full of food, looking well-rested and freshly scrubbed.

John sat up a little straighter against the pillow and helped her settle it on his lap.

"Listen, I have an idea," she said as she sat down on the edge of his bed. "Today's my day off and the _Top Chef_ marathon is on TV right now. Do you want to watch it with me?"

He froze, half a much-diminished sandwich in one hand and a napkin in another. _You want to hang out with me?_ his expression seemed to say.

"Sure," she replied, folding her arms. "Who else do I know who can truly appreciate the absolute genius of Anthony Bourdain?"

John shrugged. She did have a point.

"Since you're sick, we're going watch it right here," she said, indicating the flat screen TV situated at the foot of his bed. "so move over and make room for me."

He scooted over a bit, awestruck, as she rummaged through the drawer of his nightstand, looking for the remote control.

How in the hell had she managed to buffalo him like this? He was completely at her mercy. Hell, she could have her way with him right now if she wanted to and there was no way he could stop her.

Not that he'd try all that hard.

"Yay!" she said as she pushed the button to turn on the TV and settled in next to him. "This is going to be so awesome!"

He looked at her.

Ellie blushed. "I just sounded like Devon there for a moment, didn't I?"

John nodded.

"Oh well, I guess there are worse thing in life," she said with wry grin. "How's your sandwich? I didn't know if you liked grape or apple jelly, so I took a chance."

He smiled back at her as he chewed, pointed to the sandwich and gave her a thumbs-up.

"Good," she replied. "Glad to know I made the right call."

* * *

"I can't believe that guy won!" Ellie fretted, watching Hung's victory speech. "Casey was a much better cook than he was!"

"And not nearly as conceited," John commented in a dry, scratchy voice, secretly thrilled at her loyalty to the family name.

She stood up, stretched the kinks out of her spine and shook out her legs as she gave him a once-over. "Well, you're looking a lot better and you can finally talk now. I guess my work here is done."

There was an awkward moment as they both realized how much they had enjoyed each other's company over the last two days and that it was quickly coming to an end.

"Bet you'll be glad you won't have me bossing you around anymore," she offered as she shoved her hands into the pockets of her jeans.

He cocked his head to the side, made a "considering" face, then looked at her and nodded a little bit with a gleam in his eye.

She laughed – he was teasing her. Again.

"Don't get so cocky there," she cautioned. "I know your Achilles heel – you're a complete baby when it comes to taking your medicine."

He scowled at her and held up a finger, indicating for her to "hold on just a minute there, missy" as he turned his back to her.

"You can't shoot me," she taunted as he searched the drawer of his other nightstand for something. "Everyone would know you did it."

When he turned back around, he had a piece of paper in his hand which he held up smugly for her perusal.

Her mouth dropped wide open as she leaned forward to read the number that was written on it.

He managed to pull his hand back just in time as she crawled across the bed and made a mad grab for it.

"Give that back! That is über-classified, top-secret, lock-it-in-a-safety-deposit-box-and-throw-away-the-key intelligence!" she squawked as she wrestled with him for the paper.

"Uh-uh," he said as he effortlessly played "keep-away" with her. "We made a deal, lady, fair and square – you tell anybody my secrets and I tell yours. I'll bet there's a lot of enquiring minds down at Kaiser Santa Rosa who'd like to know how much you _really_ weigh."

"You tell anybody what's on that paper and I will come back here with a rectal thermometer!" she threatened, then burst into the giggles at the look of horror on his face before she collapsed on top of him.

They both laughed for a full thirty seconds before their eyes locked and they became conscious of the position they were in – him on his back on the bed, her straddling his hips.

One moment became two as they remained there, neither quite sure of what they should do.

Then Ellie, always cool in a crisis, rolled off him and the bed in one smooth motion and stood up. Taking a deep breath, she said, "I think it's about time I returned home. God knows what the boys have done to the apartment while I was gone."

John followed her down the stairs and opened the door to let her out.

"You're coming to dinner on Sunday, aren't you?" she asked, her eyes hopeful and expectant as she looked at him over her shoulder. "We're having pot roast. You never actually got to have any the last time I served it."

He nodded, grateful that the door hid the clenching of his fist as he gave into her yet again. "I'll bring dessert?"

"Sure!" she replied, their easy camaraderie once more in place.

He watched her walk away, not closing the door to his apartment until she was inside of hers. One never knew what might happen crossing a courtyard in this section of town, he told himself as she waved at him before she closed her door.

_Jesus Christ,_ John thought as he closed his, leaned back against it and sighed heavily. _I am so fucking screwed…_


End file.
